Broken
by LittleMissMuse
Summary: Here, at the end of all things.
1. Chapter 1

**Inspired by the Rebels season two finale (of course) and FlyHalf16's lovely AniSoka fic,** _ **Death Can't Part Us**_ **(if you have time definitely check her out, her stories are wonderful).**

 **In my head-canon, Rebels never happened… except for Anakin and Ahsoka because they make me squee :3  
**

* * *

His world is painted in drab red and cloying mauve, and the monotonous labor of breathing. He goes places, sees things… or so they tell him. Ice-wracked dales and wind-wracked deserts are indistinguishable; friend from foe delineated by a little flashing dot on his visor.

Sometimes, when he is tired or when the screams become a little too real (he's killed her a thousand times over already, will she not sleep?), the little flashing dot can be hard to see; then he just kills so that he can go back down the empty halls to a little metal box where he can sit in darkness with no red or mauve or once-betrothed (then-married, a secret, now forever-dying); just him and the monotonous labor of breathing.

Which is not to say it is all bad, of course. In particularly-vicious firefights, the superheated bolts light up his visor with splashes of ochre; and they are mesmerizing, so much so that he sometimes forgets to block. He likes the colors, for no reason at all— _and he is to supervise my Jedi training_ — apart from the fact that they are bright and tiny and they snip away at the fringes of his sanity— _no, I'm the one with enthusiasm, you're the one with—_

 _—_ a blinding headache, surely, and those rebel yells and whoops aren't helping, so in a sudden blaze of fury he throws down his lightsaber and breaks them all in one motion, their bodies shattered where they stand; in blessed silence.

And now he can go back to his little metal box of a room; to sit and wait until they call him again.

* * *

Life has been good to her.

The first few months were the worst; she shuffled from planet to planet, place to place, every night old tears soaking new sheets. The jobs were seedy, the people shady, and for the first time in her life she was _lost_ ; no mission, no purpose, no training for a higher cause.

Not that she didn't try, at first; she ran through old katas on greasy floors, meditated as much as gurgling pipes and screaming neighbors would allow, and listened for any news of the war on her dying holoprojector.

But lightsaber training wasn't the same without someone to spar with; most days she came home so exhausted that "meditation" consisted of passing out on dirty sheets; and any news that came through was heavily-censored and amounted to little more than propaganda.

So she stopped trying; her lightsabers she swapped out for a small blaster, and any Force-training she might have attempted was lost into the grind of waking up to a sickening hangover (courtesy of a late night out), swallowing a dozen assorted painkillers and antidepressants, blotting on some semblance of makeup (the men loved the "exotic" Togruta facepaint), and choking down some colorless food substitute (with a side of ground-up drugs… for taste) before heading out into the city suitably-buzzed. Night would find her shaking her ass in some sleazy establishment or another—completely intoxicated at this point with her lingerie stuffed full of credits by the onlooking males—before stumbling into bed (whether her own or a stranger's hardly mattered) just as the sun was peeking over the tops of grimy spacescrapers, ready to do it all over again.

And it was fine, it kept her from _remembering_ , and most days she was too numb and wasted to even cry.

That was the state she was in when Lux Bonteri found her: stripping on the deck of some interstellar party cruiser that had made port at Iziz, Onderon. There were more than a few jeers and wolf-whistles when she threw herself, still scantily-clad, into the arms of the flabbergasted Onderon senator, but she didn't care. She broke down right then and there, tears flowing freely onto his chest. Just the sight of a familiar face had brought it all crashing back: memories of the time when she was Ahsoka Tano, commander of the five-hundred-and-first legion and Jedi Padawan… now, a stripper named "Ashla" on the party cruiser _The Titillation_.

It was so absurd she almost giggled despite herself.

He brought her to his quarters in the palace of Iziz, away from the grunge and the grime and her shame; and for the first time in a long time, she slept with no tears dotting her pillow.

The palace gardens of Iziz were beautiful… just like the time she met Lux on Raxus. _A beautiful memory_.

"What were you doing on a party cruiser, senator Bonteri?" she teased.

He flushed a bright red at her suggestion, and she suddenly realized how much innocence she'd lost. "It's not like I wanted to! My friends all dragged me there for a bachelor party."

 _Bachelor party…?_

His face broke into a beatific grin. "I forgot to tell you… I'm engaged, Ahsoka!"

"…Oh." For some reason, her heart had sunk into her stomach. "I mean, congratulations!"

"Thank you," he said, grasping her hands with genuine emotion, "for all that you have done for me, old friend. I would never have made it without you."

She smiled past her pain. Had he forgotten her so easily?

The next few weeks passed in bliss. It was as if they had never been parted, and she fell easily into the old rhythm of banter.

"Brianna's away in Coruscant at the moment on diplomatic business," he said; his stormy-grey eyes— _be still, my heart—_ never failing to light up at the mention of his fiancée. "I can't wait for you to meet her, Ahsoka!"

She looked away. "… Tell me about this party we're going to. What is it, anyway?"

He grinned from ear to ear. "Onderon independence day!"

It was late into the night when they staggered back to the palace arm-in-arm, he yodeling out some drunken rendition of an Onderon fight song, she giggling uncontrollably as she tried to keep him from falling into the palace lake—the poor boy couldn't handle his liquor. She tucked him into bed, but as she turned to leave, he grabbed her arm.

"It's good to have you back, Ahsoka," he said, and his eyes were lucid in the dark. "I've missed you."

Her heart melted. She pressed her lips to his smooth, warm cheek before stumbling back to her room just as the alcohol caught up with her.

She woke with a gasp, sometime in the middle of the night; her mind clear, her heart pounding, her body _aching_ and burning up. _Lux…_

She crept into his room, heart hammering out of her chest. Outside, a storm raged; rain lashed against the windows, but he was awake, sitting up against the headboard. "Ahsoka…?"

Their lips crashed, and it was everything that she remembered: his hair so soft on fingers, his breath so sweet on her tongue, and his arms wrapped tight around her waist…

She fell back onto satin sheets with a moan as he attacked her slender neck greedily, lips and teeth leaving marks on silky skin while his hands massaged her breasts. Her breath came in short gasps.

Oh, how she'd missed this. How she had missed _him_.

He froze, panting heavily against her collarbone, while his hips ground up against hers… a question.

She kissed him softly in answer. He thrust into her with all the impatience of a man dying of thirst, and she came with a small, shuddering cry drowned out by his quiet groans, the rumble of thunder, and the tumult in her heart.

* * *

The morning after, and she was broken.

Lux stood helplessly next to her as she gathered up her meager belongings. "Ahsoka, please…"

But she wouldn't look at him, lest he see the unshed tears in her sapphire-blue eyes.

"Ahsoka, it was my fault, you don't have to leave—"

"I do," she said. _Please don't make this any harder_. "I do, Lux. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry…"

He pulled her in gently for a hug, and she broke down for the second time in weeks, sobbing against him; he was wonderful and good and the best of friends, and she didn't deserve him.

"Try to visit every now and then, okay?" he whispered against her cold montrals.

She nodded slightly with her face buried in his chest.

By sunset, she'd left Onderon on a commercial freighter.

Alone, again.

* * *

 **Some LuxSoka creeping in. I don't dislike this pairing, especially since I usually write Lux as a total sweetheart. ::kissy kissy::**


	2. Chapter 2

**(;*o** ***;) ::Bawls her eyes out::**

* * *

But life has been good to her.

The same couldn't be said for all her old friends at the Jedi Temple. She was working as a freight-hauler when news of order sixty-six broke onto the holonet: the Jedi, traitors to the Republic, all summarily _massacred_ wherever they were; video of Jedi being gunned down by clones, even younglings in the Temple—

She'd had to run to the toilet to throw up her insides.

 _I haven't even thought about them in months, years…_

In time, she learned that the best way to cope—to stave off the nightmares—was to say a small prayer before going to bed; a eulogy to all her old friends.

 _Please let them be at peace, living or dead: Master Plo Koon (dear Master Plo), and Obi-Wan, the best of friends, and Master Yoda, and Master Shaak Ti… and dear old Rex, and Padmé Amidala… and Barriss (still ever a friend in my heart) and her Master Luminara… and Kalifa (poor, poor Kalifa) and O-Mer and Jinx… and the younglings_ —here, it was always difficult to stifle a sob— _Petro, Ganodi, Byph, Katooni, Zatt and Gungi, please keep their little hearts safe... and…_

And she could sleep.

Things were very different under the new Empire. Lux and Brianna (now Imperial senators) tried to help her as much as they could, but with a bounty being put out for all missing Jedi or ex-Jedi (and with her name near the very top of the list), she had to go into hiding… and so found new purpose. For there was a fomenting rebellion against the tyrannical rule of the Empire, and she fit right in; a chance, at last, to avenge her fallen comrades.

 _For Master Windu (even if we never really saw eye-to-eye), and Steela (forgive me, Steela), and Artoo and Threepio, and…_

She dreaded having to fight clone—no, _storm—_ troopers, fearing that each time she slashed the helmet away from an enemy, Rex's face might appear before her, dead and cold… but it seemed that most of the clones had been relegated away from active duty, and so the men she killed were nameless, faceless to her.

It was great to have missions again; to feel _alive_ again. The Force thrummed powerfully once more in her head and feet and hands, as if she'd never left the Temple, never stopped her training. She missed this: the camaraderie, the adrenaline, the sheer giddiness and celebration when surviving yet another mission against impossible odds.

With her in the lead, the Empire stood no chance; she crafted a new set of silver lightsabers and reached ever-higher in the Force (learning powers neither of the light nor dark side), defeating Inquisitor after Inquisitor and stormtrooper battalion after stormtrooper battalion that they sent against her. Even a last-ditch attempt by the Empire to assassinate her (an ambush when she returned from a battle alone, sprung by the Grand Inquisitor and the last five members of the Inquisitorius) failed utterly, and soon there was nobody and nothing left to challenge her.

Victory was assured.

* * *

And so today, this morning, now. Life has been good to her. She straps on her lightsabers, squares her shoulders, and walks out of her quarters into the roar of the crowd.

"The Fulcrum never dies!"

"The Fulcrum never dies!" She smiles at her codename and tilts her montrals in humble appreciation, eliciting even more cheers.

In the control room, the mood is just as fervent; today, after all, is the day they topple the Empire.

"Ahsoka!" Lux waves her over in excitement; his face is more lined now, but still as beautiful as ever. She falls easily into his embrace.

"Fulcrum," says Brianna with a respectful curtsey that Ahsoka returns. Even after all this time and all their friendship, she still finds it hard to look her in the eyes; as if afraid that Lux's wife might see the ever-present guilt brewing inside of her.

"Look at this." Lux pulls up a holomap of the galaxy. "The Emperor has retreated all of his Star Destroyers to Coruscant in his desperation, leaving countless worlds unguarded. Most of the planets will turn to our side within days, so there's not much we need to do there, but there is one important location that the Emperor has left vulnerable… here."

She recognizes it. "The fortress-world of Vjun."

He nods. "Here are most of the Imperial leaders, Moffs and governors. It seems the Emperor would rather save his own skin than his government."

She taps the end of one lekku thoughtfully. "Despite the absence of the Imperial Fleet, this won't be easy."

"No, it won't; the leaders have their own personal battalions and fleets. Still, their power is much less than facing the main fleet itself; and once we take Vjun, all Imperial government will collapse and Coruscant will have to surrender. It's our one chance!"

"Not to mention our sources indicate the Emperor's second-in-command, Darth Vader, is there as well," says Brianna.

Ahsoka looks at her uncomprehendingly. "Darth Vader?"

Lux shrugs. "Some guy. Force-sensitive, not seen much after order sixty-six. You might have felt him when we had that fighter skirmish in Vjun's orbit a few months ago," he says, completely missing Ahsoka's sudden grimace, "but he's probably just some administrative person; never seems to leave Vjun."

That day, she could've sworn—

Lux pats her shoulder. "Don't worry about it; not even the Grand Inquisitor could take you on!"

She smiles weakly back. "Let's do this."

As the command center erupts into cheers and renewed urgency, she walks slowly to her starfighter; staring into the black-tinted visor of her flight-helmet, lost in thought.

For her Master is dead, dead, _dead_.

* * *

"Lord Vader—"

He shuts off the holoprojector with a thought. Then crushes it with a thought.

It's a wonder Sidious hasn't killed him yet; though if he knows anything about his Master, it's that he won't die unless it serves the Empire somehow.

And judging by the commotion going on outside…

Leave it to Sidious, really. If Vader won't go to his assignments, then let his assignments come to him.

And then bomb the whole godforsaken planet to hell, getting rid of a depressing apprentice (which isn't completely true, he did smirk that one time a Moff fell down a hundred-meter-long vent and died, which was pretty funny and why did they build vents into the floor, he wondered) and the rebels in one fell swoop.

Which is fine, he doesn't _care_.

He does want to go outside, though, and leave this little metal box of a room, because he imagines he smells (though he can't actually smell a damn thing in his metal helm) tangerines and honeysuckle and the dying sunlight baked into her back, walking away from him— _I'm sorry, Master… but I'm not coming back…_

He adjusts his voice-modulator; looking for all the world like some fussy socialite checking his tie before the ball, ready to escort his chosen debutante— _I'm assigned to Anakin Skywalker, and he is to supervise—_ down the stairs (to hell, yes).

He runs over some Vader-isms in his head, as he does like to be prepared.

 _I must commend you all on your bravery for making it this far._

He should leave that for Sidious; final boss and all that.

 _Our long-awaited meeting has come at last._

But then that would make it sound like he'd been waiting for this moment and not like he'd been moping around for who knows how long.

… _Why did you leave?_

 __Where did that come from—?

His door is blasted off its hinges and he slams into the opposite wall, blacking out momentarily. Rough hands grab his shoulder-guards—he just had those re-shined yesterday—and unceremoniously dump him out into the hallway where the light stings his optics; and all around him are the familiar rebel huzzahs.

Like, learn a new chant already, you assholes.

Someone reaches over to touch his mask and that's when he unexpectedly snaps, all amusement evaporated, savagery spilling from every pore. He violently breaks their spines where they stand so that blood fountains out of their mouths and stains the walls.

He senses her running around the corner then, hears her cry of anguish and her lightsabers flaring to life and the screaming tumult in her heart…

He blocks her wild swings without effort or thought. His arms, his muscles, and even his lightsaber remember everything, _everything_ , about her.

He does like her when she's like this: weeping and broken and fragile… as small and childlike as the day she came to him.

He supposes he should kill her.

After all.

It's not like he still sometimes wakes up in a cold sweat, thinking she's buried under a droid factory or captured by slavers or dying on Mortis or plummeting from the sewers kilometers above the ground, all over again.

It's not like the day of her parting—and the memory of her small, vulnerable back fading into the sunset—has haunted his dreams ever after.

It's not like he once swore to never let anyone hurt her.

It's not like she's the one good thing he left behind.

It's not like he's kept her braid.

… It's not like any of those things, at all.

* * *

 _Anakin, you have to trust me now._

 _Ahsoka, I do trust you!_

 _I know you do._

* * *

His world is painted in drab red and cloying mauve… and a splash of sunset ochre.

* * *

 **Thank you very much!**


	3. Chapter 3

Ahsoka: Mmm, his _muscles_ and his _lightsaber_ remember her…

Anakin: What?

Author: *gasps and blushes* Ahsoka, you slut!

Anakin: It just means he has sparred with her for a long time, so it's all in muscle-memory now.

Ahsoka: *blows kisses* Oh _Master_ , all those "sparring sessions" are in muscle-memory alright…

Anakin: *terrified*

Author: *dies laughing*


End file.
